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Commodore Directory 08
On October 19th we came in for a howling storm of wind and rain, waves being produced in the river as high as those that occur in the sea. We tossed about considerably and shipped a lot of water. More immense sand-beaches were passed, and then we came to a region of domed rocks showing along the river bank. At all the _baracaos_, or trading sheds where the _seringueiros_ bought their supplies, the same rubbish was for sale: condemned, quite uneatable ship biscuits sold at 5_s._ a kilo; Epsom salts at the rate of L2 sterling a kilo; putrid tinned meat at the rate of 10_s._ a tin; 1-lb. tins of the commonest French salt butter fetched the price of 10_s._ each. The conversation at all those halting-places where the trading boats stopped was dull beyond words, the local scandal--there was plenty of it always--having little interest for me.
"If you will freely admit that this may not be great," I said, "I am on your side. I do not mind your saying, 'This touches me with interest and delight; but it is not to be reckoned among the lords of the garden.' What I object to is your saying, 'This is great and eternal.' I feel that I should be able to respond to the great poet, if he flashed out among us; but he must be great, and especially in a time when there really is a quantity of very beautiful verse. I suspect that perhaps this time is one that will furnish a very beautiful anthology. There are many people alive who have written perhaps half a dozen exquisite lyrics, when the spring and the soaring thought and the vision and the beautiful word all suddenly conspired together. But there is no great, wide, large, tender heart at work. No, I won't even say that; but is there any great spirit who has all that and a supreme word-power as well? I believe that there is more poetry, more love of beauty, more emotion in the world than ever; and a great many men and women are living their poetry who just can't write it or sing it."
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